


one step, and then a thousand

by bellezza



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Female-Centric, Gen, POV Female Character, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellezza/pseuds/bellezza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the second or the third Hawke child who dies after Lothering burns, and Bethany Hawke must carry her family through the ashes.</p><p>Or: apparently I really hate myself, and everybody else too.</p><p>A drabble series in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a spur of the moment idea that came from me suddenly asking myself:
> 
> What if Hawke was the one who died fighting the ogre? What if Bethany led her family away from that and became the Champion of Kirkwall instead of her sister?

when you see the ogre crest the hill you think, _maker guide me to your side, i will not survive this_. you move to put yourself between it and mother, but then marian is there, strong, steady, laughing marian, who protected you from bullies and templars. marian who, when you were still little girls sharing a bed, squeezed your hands and told you under the covers one night, “i’d take the magic from you in a heartbeat if it would make you happy, bethy, but i think you look beautiful when you do it.”  
  
marian wedges herself between you and mother and the ogre and laughs when she says, “pick on someone your own size, beastie.”  
  
the sound of her neck snapping when it picks her up and smashes her into the ground like a rag doll will echo through your nightmares for years. 


	2. Chapter 2

“your brother’s far too rash to be making decisions for your family,” aveline tells you one night when the two of you have escaped up to the top deck for fresh air and solitude. “you know that, right?”  
  
you do know that. you know that carver has only become _more_ rash since marian’s death, and you fear he’ll only become rasher still. he’s the type to spiral even further worse before he gets better.  
  
“i’m afraid,” you tell her instead. “i was never meant to lead this family. i’m afraid i won’t know what to do.”  
  
aveline looks at you, long and hard. “you’ve got backbone, bethany, and you’re smart as a whip. i can see that clear enough, and we barely know one another. i think you’ll do fine.”  
  
“thank you,” you say, and the moment feels awkward then. so you continue: “i’m so sorry for your loss. i didn’t get a chance to say before.”  
  
“are you?” she asks, and there’s nothing critical in her voice, only curiosity. “even though wesley would have happily handed you over to the chantry the minute we reached gwaren?"  
  
“yes.” it’s not a lie. you do mean it. you are sorry. you can feel marian in your breast every day, pounding, pounding.  
  
“well. thank you.” and aveline smiles briefly, though it does not reach her eyes. “and i’m sorry for yours.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“how could you have done that, marian, how could you? how _could_  you?”  
  
“mother—“  
  
“your father wanted you to protect your family, but how can you protect us like this?”  
  
“mother, please—“  
  
“this isn’t what he would have wanted, this isn’t what either of us ever wanted, but you just charged in like a fool, and i—i only stood there, i could only _watch_ —“  
  
“mother, there was nothing any of us could have done.” 


	4. Chapter 4

gamlen’s flat is a shoddy, run-down hole in the wall, as carver puts it, and given that you have actually _been_  in holes in the wall, hidden little hidey-holes father built into every house to tuck you away if the templars came knocking, you still must admit that it’s a very apt comparison.  
  
“it’s only for a little while.” you try to sound encouraging, but you hardly even believe yourself. “until we can get a place of our own.”  
  
“if marian were still here we wouldn’t be living like this,” he says fiercely, and you think _oh_. immediately carver’s face falls. “beth, no, no, oh, flames, that’s not what i meant and you know it.”  
  
you blink back tears and force a smile. “it’s alright, carver. we both know it’s true.”  
  
he swears vehemently, and you don’t even have it in yourself to chastise him for talking about the maker’s bride like that. “it is _not_.” before you realize it he’s at your side and gathering you in his arms. carver’s arms, warm and solid and strong, so much like father’s, and for the first time in years you feel like a little girl crying over a burnt finger again. you cling back harder.   
  
your twin. your other half. father used to tell stories of how it was such a struggle to pull you out of mother, because carver'd had a fast hold on your foot and didn’t want to let go for anything.  
  
he presses his face into your hair and your face into his shoulder, and you can feel him trembling. “we both know marian would have mucked things up even worse. we’d probably be living in darktown eating rat shit and performing bawdy ferelden tavern songs for coin. and nobody wants to hear my singing voice.”  
  
you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you. “she wasn’t _that_  bad.”  
  
“no,” he concedes. “and neither are you, sister. we’re all a mess. you’re holding it together better than any of us.” 


	5. Chapter 5

the smell lingering inside the hanged man punches you in the nose for the first thirty seconds after you walk in, and after that you learn to breathe easier. but varric’s rooms are lit with aromatic sticks of spicy incense and tallow candles; they’re draped in tapestries that look secondhand but well-made. he could rent a room up in hightown, the kind of coin he deals in, but instead he elects to stay down here to do this business.  
  
you accept a seat at his table and try not to let your revulsion show too strongly on your face when you taste the ale norah brings you.  
  
varric laughs good-naturedly. “yeah, the swill here takes some getting used to.”  
  
you smile, self-conscious, but varric is too kind for you to feel embarrassed. you wonder if that kindness is hiding something. you wonder if he’s wearing it like a mask, if he’s looking to play you in some way, if you can really trust this man—  
  
you stop yourself. living in kirkwall is beginning to make you feel paranoid, and maybe it’s kept you alive this far—it’s certainly kept the templars off your doorstep—but it’s also beginning to make your thoughts spiral in directions you don’t like.  
  
“thank you for the drink,” you say instead. “and for helping us out the way you are.”  
  
varric waves a careless hand. “i’m not helping you out, sunshine. you’re helping me out. the more people i can put between me and bartrand when we go into those tunnels, the less inclined i’ll feel to leave him there.”  
  
his humor makes you smile, and you’re smiling right up until he says, “so, question for you. what was going through your mind when you were facing down that ogre?”  
  
the bottom drops out of your stomach, and you set your mug down on the table very, very carefully. to varric’s credit he seems to realize immediately that it was the wrong question to ask.  
  
“shit. i’m sorry.”  
  
“no, it’s alright.” you wave that away, just as he did your gratitude. “you’re probably hoping it was something grand or witty, but i’m not that exciting. i just thought i was going to die.”  
  
“well, i’m glad you didn’t.” he reaches out to pat your hand, a gesture of comfort. “you seem like a good person to know, hawke.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks: no, I do not intend to make this Beth/Anders.
> 
> I am most definitely planning on femslash.

you can count on one hand the mages you’ve personally known your entire life, including your father and the other two athenril had employed during the time you worked for her. so when you follow varric’s lead down into the undercity to find the grey warden they call anders, there are nervous butterflies in your belly.  
  
you aren’t expecting to encounter your first abomination in the process.  
  
“i thought i was doing a good thing,” he confesses. “but you know what they say about the road to hell.”  
  
the chantry is sacred to you, has always been sacred to you, and yes, when you’d seen his skin crack and blue light bleed from his eyes, when you’d felt the pure, sheer power of the fade rip through you, you’d been terrified. now he’s back to being just a man. a man who sleeps in the sewers and pays more attention to your needy kinsmen than you’ve paid your entire year in kirkwall while you've worried about making a mint in the deep roads.  
  
you feel a little ashamed, but: you do what you must do to keep your family alive. and you think marian would do the same as well.  
  
“would you like me to pray for your friend?” you offer because you know not everyone believes. your sister would have hated the idea of a stranger praying for her poor, misguided, heathen soul (her words, not yours).  
  
anders smiles, the expression making wrinkles crease around his eyes even though he looks to be not yet thirty. “you’re very kind.”  
  
“no,” you say. “no, i’m not.” 


	7. Chapter 7

“have you ever felt sure of anything, serah hawke?” the viscount’s son asks you as you pick your way back up the sandy, jagged cliffs of the wounded coast.  
  
you've stopped for the moment to catch their breath, and you lean gratefully on your staff. some days you're more grateful for the maker’s hand on you than others, and today is one of those. as it happens, mages' staves make _excellent_  walking sticks.  
  
cold sweat beads on your brow, across your shoulders; a breeze picks up and makes her your prickle into gooseflesh while you shiver. “sorry,” you say, feeling abashed and stupid for missing the question. “what did you ask?”  
  
seamus dumar only smiles patiently. there is grief etched into his brow and a familiar, dark hollowness lurking in his eyes, but he smiles well all the same. “when was the last time you remember feeling certain of anything in your life?”  
  
the question gives you pause, makes you think. out of the corner of your eye you see aveline lean against a rock and pull out a cloth to wipe down her sword, one eye trained on the climbing path for danger; varric hefts bianca to inspect her string; anders watches you quietly, curiously, listening to the conversation and waiting to hear your answer.  
  
when you were younger—ages ago, it feels like now—you would go to the chantry in lothering and sit on a pew with your arms wrapped tight around your legs while the sister told you stories. you’d upended buckets of sudsy water onto carver’s head on laundry day. you’d thought the greatest source of adventure was getting lost in the woods with marian for hours and pretending you were venturing into the wilds. mother’s face had been care-worn, but not so etched with grief. father had held you in his arms and taught you, inch by careful loving inch, how to change the world.  
  
life was simple then. life made sense then. until you had, suddenly and cruelly, to grow up.  
  
“not since i was very young,” you tell him.  
  
seamus’s smile turns sad. “isn’t it a wonder the things we only learn to appreciate once we’ve lost them and begun to grieve."


End file.
